


intoxicated by the lie

by charizona



Series: ladies of poi - martine rousseau [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Hair-pulling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4015159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martine rubs her neck, sits in the snow of a silent forest, and scans the dead bodies around her. She’s a brunette now, with brown hair that reminds her of way too many ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	intoxicated by the lie

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: yellow
> 
> Italics = flashback.

Martine goes from blonde to brunette for exactly two reasons.

Greer orders her to; it’s necessary for Sameen’s “recalibration”, as he calls it. It doesn’t quite hit her why, until she steps into a bathroom and sees her reflection afterward. She’s a new person. A familiar, someone from the other side.

She knows why Greer did it, and when Jeremy catches a glimpse of her, he grins wide.

“Why, Ms. Groves, the resemblance is uncanny,” he croons, in that accent Martine decides she can’t stand.

She shrugs it off. “Don’t do that,” she warns, and she’s back to cleaning her guns. There’s nothing else to do besides shoot them, “Or I’m going to shoot you.”

“You’ve gotten used to having me around,” he teases, although he knows that he’s pushing it.

She wouldn’t call them friends. They’re co workers, allies in this war against the Machine, and she’d quicker call herself closer to Samaritan than to him. But he’s here, he’s someone to talk to. Shaw certainly isn’t a conversationalist, locked in a room twenty-four hours of the day.

Torture doesn’t work on her, even though neither Jeremy nor Martine are quite strong in that regard. Martine was an investigator, not an interrogator, and all Jeremy’s good for is firing a gun or charming the enemy. Greer’s the mastermind, really, and he’s the only one who can stand putting a knife to skin for fun.

Martine’s gotten better at it. It’s not hard, when all Shaw does is glare and spit in their faces.

Jeremy doesn’t bode well when he’s ordered to talk to Shaw. Martine sees him before; he sweats, he’s nervous. He’s scared, mostly, because Shaw’s already managed to get out of her bonds twice, managed to break guards’ wrists and noses. She hasn’t killed anyone, not yet, but Martine’s sure that’s because of the “code” Harold’s instilled in his little nest of assassins’ heads.

Not to mention that the first time Jeremy went in to talk to Shaw, she spit in his face. He doesn’t take insult well, and he’s been angry ever since.

Greer comes to them one day with a new idea - he’s always got them, rolling around in his head to make Shaw crack - and it’s Martine who takes the downfall, not Jeremy.

A box of hair dye and twenty-five minutes later, Martine stands in front of her own reflection and doesn’t recognize what’s staring back at her.

Dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, Martine sighs. Her fingers grip the porcelain of the sink. There’s a burning curling iron waiting for her in the other room, waiting to create soft waves in a brunette sea, and Martine can only think of one person, but it’s not the person she’s supposed to be.

She shakes it. Gets ready. Falls into her persona like usual.

Shaw’s waiting in the room, drugged and ready to go. This was Greer’s idea, Martine reminds herself, and when she walks through the door and into Shaw’s cell, the familiarity of it all aches in her heart. Shaw’s head rolls up, on the defensive even through the thick haze of the drugs in her system, and she almost smiles at Martine. She grins, lazy.

“Root,” she slurs, and Martine stiffens.

This is what Greer wanted, she tells herself. She nods her head, sure that her voice would give her away.

“Thanks for finally getting around to saving me,” Shaw says next, letting her head fall to the side. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

“You know me,” Martine murmurs, stepping closer.

“I do,” Shaw agrees, and her eyes are barely open. Martine stands in front of her and doesn’t say a word, only waits.

The room is bare, just has a bed in the corner with crumpled up sheets. Sweat dapples Shaw’s skin as she shakes, dressed only in a thin tank top and shorts. There’s a bucket in the corner, a slit in the door, and Martine is out of place.

Shaw’s nails itch at the scabs dotting her forearms, red lines where the zip ties have cut into her skin. “Did that annoying voice in your ear finally talk to you?” she murmurs, and she’s talking more to herself than anything else.

“Yes,” Martine says, and there’s a pull in her chest.

Shaw can barely keep her head up. “I knew you didn’t have to be sad,” Shaw points out, staring at her own hands. “Now get me out of here before that blonde bitch comes back.” Hesitantly, Shaw’s hands are deadlifts as she lifts them up, offering them like a sacrifice. She holds them there, the muscles in her arms quaking, and Martine shakes her head.

She walks out of Shaw’s cell empty handed, or so she thinks. Greer pats her on the back, says, “Good work, my dear.”

Jeremy’s grinning from behind a computer screen, and from operations, Samaritan is already giving new orders. She’s found out how the Machine gives Root orders, which is more than Shaw’s given them in months, but Martine is sick to her stomach and can’t even look at herself in the mirror. She braves the gazes of Lambert and Greer before she’s slipping out, away.

It isn’t until Root’s hands are around her neck, her strength feels like it’s being pulled away from her, that Martine realizes the second reason for dyeing her hair.

“I liked you better as a blonde,” bubbles up from Root’s throat, as the two of them roll around in the snow.

Somehow, Root’s got the upperhand. She got a good one to Martine’s ribs, cracked a few, and Martine can’t breathe, partly due to the hands wrapped around her throat and partly due to the splinters pressing on her lungs. Root’s thighs border her hips and Martine thinks this may just be the end of everything. Black edges around her vision, but then, suddenly, Root’s tugged off and away from her, with a screaming rage.

Sitting up, Martine wonders where the appeal is. She rubs her neck, sits in the snow of a silent forest, and scans the dead bodies around her. She’s a brunette now, with brown hair that reminds her of way too many ghosts.

Martine scrambles to her feet, snow crunching underfoot, and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

She’d gone from blonde to brunette for two reasons; Greer had given her orders and she thought a change might be nice.

Now, a change kind of makes her want to throw up.

 

.

_“So yellow,” Kara murmurs, fingers threading through Martine’s hair. Bare skin caressing Martine’s shoulder, Martine leans into the touch._

_They’re in a hotel room paid for on Martine’s new salary as a government agent. Kara’s still CIA and Martine’s still hidden intelligence, so it all feels very Romeo and Juliet-esque, but when they’re shacked up like this, it’s easy to forget the rest of the world, especially the torrential rain of bullets that never seems to end in their respective lines of work._

_“Don’t you mean green?” Martine wonders, eyes gazing toward the ceiling. She’s still new in this job, not used to the technicalities that come with it._

_“You’re getting better,” Kara assures her, and her fingers weave through Martine’s hair and itch their way down to her scalp. The movement is comforting, a featherlight touch that feels like home. “You hit the bullseye every time, even more than that partner of yours.”_

_“Mm.” Martine rolls her head back, catching the gleam in Kara’s eyes. “One of your bullets grazed him today, by the way.”_

_“Oops,” Kara says, raising a brow. She’s kissing Martine, then, lips emollient and languid. It’s only when her fingers tighten in Martine’s hair that Martine smiles, teeth knocking against teeth, and Kara’s free arm wraps around Martine’s bare waist. “Such pretty hair,” Kara continues, emphasizing her words with a tug on tresses._

_The spark of pain on her scalp ignites something within Martine. She leans in, sucking on Kara’s bottom lip, pulling away with it between her teeth._

_“Such a pretty girl,” Kara says, and she’s not smiling anymore. Her look is filled with lust, not mirth, and soon she’s slipping her hand from Martine’s hair to press down on her shoulder, pushing her further into the bed. She slips a knee across Martine’s waist, presses her hips into Martine’s and lets her own dark hair tickle Martine’s bare skin._

_She drags a nail up Martine’s torso, raising goosebumps as she goes, and she encircles a nipple with her her forefinger, grinning when Martine pulls her bottom lip into her mouth. Her movements are slow, calculated, and everything Martine has wanted. Kara’s hands find her breasts and take their time; Kara kneads them languidly, flicking a nipple with Martine leans into her touch._

_“Kara,” Martine breathes, blonde hair splayed out above her head._

_“Yes?” Lips envelop Martine’s right nipple a moment later, tugging a moan from her chest without permission. Pushing her tongue against the hardened skin, Kara lets out a breath when Martine suddenly sits up, shifting them both._

_She captures both of Kara’s wrists, pinning them behind her back, and takes a deep breath. She’s kissing the sharp angle of Kara’s jaw, then, exposing the long column of her throat. Kara arches toward her, pressing breasts against breasts. Martine gets careless, lets go of Kara’s hands and lets her own hands wander, palming Kara’s breasts with one and letting another snake between them, right where Kara wants her the most._

_Kara almost jumps out of her skin when Martine’s fingers slide through hot folds. Martine takes her hand back just a moment and licks her fingers carefully, Kara watching her with intense brown eyes, and then Martine’s fingers are brushing against her clit, Kara shaking against her._

_Her nails scratch at Martine’s back, at first. When Martine pushes a finger inside of her, Kara’s fingers curl around Martine’s shoulder and she presses her forehead into Martine’s, barely able to contain herself._

_It’s the first time Martine’s fucked Kara and not the other way around._

_Martine adds another finger and she pushes further into Kara, slipping her fingers in and out with ease. Kara rocks against her hand, craving more of her, and then, one of Kara’s hands is weaving its way into Martine’s hair and pulling. The tug at her scalp sharpens Martine’s senses, almost, and she quickens her pace, pushes in a third finger, and flips their positions, pushing Kara into the blankets._

_She leverages with her thigh, increasing her pressure with well timed thrusts of her leg and her hand, together. Kara comes undone beneath her and she’s beautiful, crying out against her throat, biting down when the orgasm pulses through her, and Martine slows down accordingly. Kara’s thighs are clenched around her waist, and they slip away when Martine slides out of her._

_She brings a hand up and slips her fingers into her mouth, tasting Kara on her fingertips. Slowly, Kara’s fists unclench from her hair, and wipe at her own forehead._

_A few strands of blonde are tangled in her knuckles and Kara shakes her head, only mildly embarrassed. “Did I hurt you?” she asks, only sounding a bit resentful about it._

_“Never,” Martine responds, kissing the corner of Kara’s lips. She stares down at Kara, brown hair disheveled and mussed._

_Kara reaches up to tuck a few blonde strands of hair behind Martine’s ear. She says, “I will,” before she’s leaning up and kissing Martine again, before Martine has a chance to figure out what it means._

 

.

 

Standing over the mirror, Martine has a bottle of bleach in her hand.

They’re moving Shaw tonight, but the trap for Samantha Groves is set. She might not have time to do this if she doesn’t do it now. Her finger grip the porcelain of the sink, the water runs down into the drain, and she doesn’t recognize the person staring back at her.

Well, that’s a lie. She recognizes the person staring back at her, but all she sees is a ghost.

Jeremy knocks on the door, his voice filtering through. “They’re early,” he says. “Harold Finch and Ms. Groves are here.”The bottle of bleach stays there, forgotten and never found, because Martine dies at the hands of Samantha Groves.

Yellow and brown hair continue to belong to ghosts.


End file.
